A Day in the Life
by Ione
Summary: Lucy plans a special birthday surprise for Flynn in historic Alexandria. There's someone there she wants him to see. A Post-Titanic AU, where the movie never happened. Fluffy Garcy. A birthday fic for Tumblr user x-voyevoda. ONESHOT.


**A Day in the Life**

A birthday fic for x-voyevoda

Lucy hadn't slept a wink all night, mostly because she spent half of it coordinating all the favors she had coming in. Planning Flynn's birthday had required her to call in every single one she'd ever accrued, from Mason and Denise all the way down to a Renaissance Faire costumer she'd done a free bit of research for years ago. Before anyone else in the bunker was awake, she'd been loading boxes and coolers into the Lifeboat, pausing at every bump and clatter like a guilty thief. But it was all there, everything she'd wanted.

It was going to be a good day.

She fastened the last bow on her dress with trembling fingers. Early nineteenth century fashion was some of her favorite; though the skirts were heavy with petticoats, walking in them felt weighty, important. Even better, the corset she was wearing had been tailor-made for _her_. No more misshapen stays poking into her armpits or threatening to puncture her kidneys! And, uncomfortable as corsets could be, Lucy had to admit she loved the lift they provided. She twirled in front of the grimy bathroom mirror, smiling at how the crimson fabric set off the darkness of her hair and eyes.

Flynn looked good in red too. The fabric of her dress and his waistcoat would match.

Lucy, alone in the bathroom, flushed and shook her head. Romance wasn't really her wheelhouse; she'd always been too focused on her career and pleasing her increasingly sick mother. She'd thought it was nice gesture, but she hoped he wouldn't think it was...too cheesy.

A door opened and closed, rusty metal squealing, echoing through the bunker. Lucy gathered her toiletries and scampered out of the bathroom, darting into Jiya's room before anyone could see her. Of course, everyone _knew_ she was planning a surprise for Flynn—even _Flynn _knew, because keeping something from a former terrorist in a small, enclosed space wasn't really feasible—but she wanted to keep the details as quiet as possible.

Jiya poked her head up over the blankets. "Morning," she sighed, rubbing her eyes. "Y'know, when you asked to sleep here, I thought you might actually _sleep_. You banished my boyfriend for no good reason."

"I got a few hours in," Lucy replied, smoothing a lock of hair from where it touched her cheek, "but thank you. You know I bribed Rufus into piloting for me today, right?"

"Yeah, I know. You've got me to thank for that, by the way. I was doing some digging and, did you know, _cupcakes _were invented a few years before 1830? When I told him that, he was sold. He's gonna find the whatever the equivalent of a Sprinkles is and bring me at least half a dozen."

"Pastry back then isn't like what we have now. Chocolate wasn't a common ingredient, and frosting wasn't in frequent use until—"

"Don't take this away from me," Jiya burrowed back under the blankets, waving a hand, "Vintage. Cupcakes."

One eye reemerged, sweeping Lucy from head to toe. "You look really pretty, by the way. Flynn better appreciate _his _cupcake."

* * *

"Lucy, what's all this about?" there was a smile on Flynn's face, like the cat who got the canary. He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his waistcoat and stood, square and broad, showing off his tall, lean frame. Lucy felt her heart stutter. Yes, early nineteenth century fashion was a boon for men, too. He looked elegant yet somehow rakish, like a dashing gentleman highwayman. It didn't help that she'd _always _had a thing about waistcoats. And Flynn in waistcoats. Yes, even before he was a nominal 'good guy'.

She wasn't proud of it, but the heart—and the libido—wants what it wants. Wasn't that the famous phrase?

"Happy birthday," was all she said, trying to smile flirtatiously but not knowing how. She had a sneaking suspicion it came off more as being deeply uncomfortable. Or gassy. "I thought we could do something fun today. And since we can't really go out in the modern day, I thought...we'd just go back."

"You planned this," his smile widened, flashing teeth. "Lucy, I'm touched."

"Don't tease," she grumbled, "It's just that since the _Titanic _we haven't gotten a lot of time alone. Together."

"I don't remember this from the journal."

"I wanna do something off-book," she shrugged, "Don't you get tired of your life feeling scripted?"

His smile faded. He approached her, step by step, each footfall ringing deep and heavy in the quiet hangar. When he was a foot from her, just at the outer boundary of her skirts, he stopped. Looking down at her with those fathomless eyes of his, Lucy remembered their conversation in Germany. She had that same helpless feeling again. That he knew everything about her. That he accepted everything about her. The loss of control was delicious.

He took a quick breath, then said, "Not when you're the one writing the script."

Lucy did not swoon. She _didn't_. It was just that her collar was suddenly very tight and there was blood rushing everywhere in her body all at once and her heart was racing but her hands were cold and _if_ she put one of her hands on Flynn's forearm, she did it because that was a very sweet thing to say and _not _because she needed support to keep her upright.

"Well," she said, voice wispy and pale, "I'm writing this one, I guess."

Flynn turned his palm so he gripped her elbow. His thumb pressed to the rapid pulse he could feel beating there. "I guess you are."

Oh boy. Lucy knew precisely how strict laws against public indecency were in Alexandria in the 1830s, but she might just be willing to risk it. She stepped closer, her skirts crushing against his thighs, and bent her neck back, inviting him to close the distance.

"A-_hem_," Rufus cleared his throat, "Sorry I'm late. You _did_ want to get going, right? Not that there's anything wrong with a little birthday bunker sex, but everyone can hear you. Also it's like...11:30."

"We're going," Lucy snapped, jerking out of Flynn's grasp. Hoisting up her skirts, she clambered up the steps into the Lifeboat, too fast even for Flynn to offer her a steadying hand. "We're going."

* * *

They walked arm-in-arm down the cobbled walkways of post-Colonial Alexandria, marveling together at having an entire _day_ of history to enjoy without a mission. Flynn poured over the newspapers in all their proliferation, _Gazettes _and _Heralds_ and _Dailys_ galore. Lucy studied shop windows, noting prints, fabrics, and patterns. They both dashed into every bookstore they saw and Lucy's reticule was soon bursting with pamphlets and new publications. For lunch, Lucy led them to a famous tea-room and they shared an enormous slice of meat pie and some heavy custard pastries, with tea so dark and bitter even Flynn had to add sugar and cream.

Afterwards, they walked along the canal, watching the barges transporting animals, bales of goods, and fruits and vegetables for market. Tiny waves lapped against the shore, soothing and regular, juxtaposed against the shouts of bargemen hollering for their right of way against the current.

"Do you remember the World's Fair?" she asked.

Flynn shifted, shoulders bunching together. He remembered. "Why are you thinking about that? I was holding you hostage."

"I know," she replied, "but it's the weirdest thing. After the _Titanic_, I had a dream about us there."

"Oh?" his smile was back; his tongue flicked over his bottom lip. Lucy had to look away, willing her blush to stay under her collar.

"Yeah. We were just...walking. Like this, today. Just talking. You were telling me about the Ferris Wheel, how it was constructed. Not that I didn't _know_, of course," her chin jutted proudly at the very thought that Flynn might know more about history than she did, "but it was really nice. No Rittenhouse, no guns, just..." she laughed, "We ate kettle corn."

It happened too fast for words. Flynn bent and kissed her, drawing her under him, inexorable as a vine wrapping around a sapling. Lucy tipped forward onto the balls of her feet, then her tiptoes, and then she was off them, supported solely by his strength. When they parted, she was breathless, dizzy, laughing.

"You," she gasped, grinning, "you _actually_ swept me off my feet."

He kissed her again. And again, and again, until some rather pointed jeers from the canal reminded them that public displays of affection hadn't been invented just yet. Smiling like guilty teenagers, they ran back towards the town, hand-in-hand, as sunset's amber light gilded them both in a fiery, radiant glow.

"There's one thing I wanted you to see," Lucy said as they elbowed through the crowds. "Now, we can't actually _go _to the ball, because Washington will be there and he'll definitely recognize us, but there was a public procession through the town on the way to Gadsby's Tavern and if we find the right corner, we'll still see him."

"See Washington?" Flynn's brow creased, "Why do you want to do that again?"

"It's not him I want to see. It's who he's here to celebrate. For the past few months, cities all along the eastern seaboard have been hosting," she paused, stretching out the tension as she'd done in her lectures, waiting until Flynn was hanging on her next word, "the Marquis de Lafayette."

Flynn stopped dead, hand crushing hers in shock. "How," he stammered, "how did you know?"

"You let me borrow your Kindle, remember? Six books...I figured he had to be either a target or a fixation. And since you never went to see him, not once in all your missions, I figured it was probably the latter."

"I," he shook his head, disbelieving, "I didn't want to—I shouldn't be here."

Lucy had anticipated this. Gently, she rested her head against his shoulder, pulling him away from the crowds and into a shadowed archway. It wasn't the most romantic of spots—the alley smelled of wet rubbish—but they were alone.

"He reminds me of you, you know. Lafayette," she looked up at him, pressing herself closer, using her body to anchor him to their moment, "He wasn't American. He had no part in our struggles. But he believed in us, in our promise and potential. So he risked everything for America—his fortune, his family, his future. He saved us. _You_ saved us."

His head was shaking in short, choppy movements of knee-jerk denial. Unable to reach his cheek without some cooperation from him, Lucy settled instead for nuzzling her lips against his jaw's cutting edge, smelling starched linen and his musky cologne.

"You deserve this, Garcia," she rode out his flinch; he still wasn't used to hearing his name, his _first_ name, "You deserve to be happy."

"I don't deserve _you_," he muttered.

Lucy frowned. _That_ was an exhausting refrain, especially since Flynn often felt himself duty-bound to pull away from her after he'd said it. In his mind, she was still his oracle, guiding him towards a bright future. She wasn't a human woman, with human needs.

Some wicked impulse seized her then. Her lips raised and she nipped at his pulse-point. Hard.

This time Flynn's flinch was punctuated with a dry gasp. "Lucy, what—?"

"Why not let _me_ be the judge," she bit him again, loving the way he shuddered under her hands, "of what you do and don't deserve? Okay?"

He nodded, eyes wild and dark. "Okay."

"Good," she stepped back, "Let's go. It's almost time, and I don't want you to miss him."

Flynn's head rolled back against the alley's brick wall so that Lucy could see his heartbeat leaping in his throat. "You have a way with words, Lucy. That speech...did you write it?"

"I may have scribbled down a few things, yes," she shrugged, unembarrassed. "I'm a teacher. You think I walked into my lectures just winging it?"


End file.
